Page 72 of The Savage Queen

So, when Aisling was near enough, she paused and appraised him, glaring down and into his glacial eyes.

“You were meant to be mine,” Fionn repeated, this time more desperate.

“No,” she said. “I was meant to burn.”

Aisling raised the blade above her head and swung down.

The Forge didn’t spare the son of Winter’s life.

A mortal prince did.

Dagfin stood before Aisling, holding her hands, the haft, the blade mid-swing. The edge of it centimeters from slicing his shoulder as her flames beaded his forehead with sweat. His flesh glowing red with her kiss of fire.

Lir bristled from behind but held his ground.

“You’ve already won, Aisling,” he said, Roktan blue eyes searching her own.

“You fight to spare a fae lord’s life?!” Aisling bit, fighting his grip.

Dagfin shook his head, brow furrowed. “I only ever fight for you, Aisling.” He glanced over his shoulder at Fionn, rising to his feet. “And this is a decision you cannot undo. You’ll live with his death till you meet your own.”

“TheStarling?—”

“TheStarlingwas desperation, survival. This—this is anger. This is vengeance and it’ll never remedy his sins against you.”

For a moment, they’d fallen back in time and were once more in Tilren, running through the thoroughfare with her brothers and a baker’s husband chasing after them with a rolling pin above his head. Fergus had fallen, the rolls in his pockets spilling across the cobbles. He’d glared up at Aisling, but she’d turned away, knowing Fergus’s failure was a success of her own. But itwas Dagfin who’d stopped. Who’d raced back, lifted Fergus, and dragged him back toward Castle Neimedh.

She met Dagfin’s stare and held it. A part of her resentful for him always forcing her to acknowledge the kinder choice.

But resentment or not, it was enough.

Aisling released the blade. It clattered to the floor. The only sound until Dagfin exhaled out of relief, Aisling’s fires extinguished, and theFaerakcollected the sword, brandishing it himself so that Fionn couldn’t wield it again.

“How dare you!?” Fionn straightened, ice jutting from the floors in great pillars of glass. “Try as you might, Aisling, you’ll come to recognize the better choice between Lir and I, whether willingly or by force.”

The world erupted into chaos.

Ice blasted from the ground, threatening to implode Oighir entirely. Sidhe raced for all and every escape, guards, bestial or fae, swarming. Arrows raining from the plucked strings of fox bows.

Aisling spun on her heel. It was time to run.

On her right, Galad, Gilrel, Peitho, and Filverel held off Fionn’s guards. Lir waiting for Aisling, hand outstretched. Something desperate flaring in his eyes.

On her left, stood Dagfin and her brothers shouting Aisling and Dagfin’s names, gesturing to flee with them while they still bore the opportunity, at last freed from Fionn’s deal. Voices masked by the sheer volume of the discord.

“We need to leave, Lir!” Peitho screamed, unpinning herself from Greum’s oppressive weight and swiping his right paw as he swung for her again. “Now!”

Lir’s jaw tightened, never once unleashing Aisling from his regard.

“Ash,” Dagfin said, unable to force himself to glance in Lir’s direction.

Aisling shook her head, temples throbbing. Heartbeat pulsing in her throat.

“Go and live to be king, Fin,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

And a part of her was. Fionn was right about one thing: this journey wasn’t fit for mortal souls. And Aisling knew, of all the crimes she’d willingly commit in exchange for what she craved, being the reason Dagfin’s life ended wasn’t one of them.

Aisling turned and stepped toward Lir.

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